


stay here for a while and listen to the sound of my shaky heart

by austen



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2010-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 14:29:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austen/pseuds/austen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's been avoiding her - moreso than usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stay here for a while and listen to the sound of my shaky heart

He's been avoiding her - moreso than usual.

To say it doesn't have anything to do with the other night would be bordering on naivety.

Her office is surprisingly lacking in interruptions from him and him alone. He sends his team to update her; when he joins them, he sits in the back, as close to the door as he can get. Her gaze flickers to him occasionally, almost waiting for him to throw open the door and leave. It's getting to be a theme with him.

She asks him to stay behind while the others leave to do some tests, and tries not to notice the knowing looks shared between them as they disappear in a train of white coats. His expression is indecipherable as he moves toward her, and it doesn't change as he raps the end of his cane against the side of her desk in an irritating staccato rhythm. She leans back in her chair, crosses her arms over her chest, and for a minute, she thinks she sees his eyes flicker to her breasts, but in the next second, they're back on her face and he's spinning the handle of his cane in his fingers.

They don't say a word. She's not expecting the silence to be as uncomfortable as it is, and her mind automatically jumps to self-deprecation and doubt, wonders _why_ she ever thought this was a good idea.

She arches an eyebrow, finally rising from her seat with the intention of delivering files. But he blocks her path when she walks around, the length of his cane resting against her shins as a temporary barrier. She tries to side-step; he counters in a way she isn't expecting, and in that moment he's in her personal space. She doesn't want him to notice the sigh that unconsciously slips from her mouth, but something in the way his gaze changes signals that he has. The fabric of his suit jacket grazes her wrist, and she knows she needs to say something to turn the tables.

"I saw you."

The words are jarring in the quiet; they both take a moment to process them.

"Saw me _where_?" His tone is strange, his brow furrowing.

"Outside my house." His motorcycle is the only one she hears roaring up the block at all hours of the night, headlights cutting through the darkness and making the street lamps seem inadequate. Nothing in his expression changes, but his hand twitches inside his pocket, and she hears the audible click of the lid on the Vicodin bottle, popping off and then back on. Off, on. She shifts the folders in her arms and the movement shifts his eyes downward, away from her face.

"What were you doing?" It's more than curiosity in her tone. The question is loaded with something much deeper than either of them are ready to address. All the potential answers are forming in his head. She can see him going through each one in turn, discarding the nonsensical, the sentimental, the personal.

"Watching through your window is a step up from cable porn," he mutters. "It's _free_."

She doesn't know what she was expecting from him, but her forehead creases with a mix of confusion and disappointment, the latter of which surprises her. She's admitted to Wilson that she hasn't thought about the possibility of taking things to the next level - much. She's never been one to focus on a negative outcome, but with House, it's difficult not to. The excitement of newness would be inevitable, the thrill of possibility. But nothing with him would ever resemble a honeymoon stage. The bitter spats would ultimately just be bitter; the lover's quarrel distanced from love in every way possible.

It would be fair for her to say that she cares about him, cares _for_ him.

But she could never be in love with him - she knows how it'll end if she ever finds herself saying those words.

"You didn't knock," she points out, standing just in front of him.

"Changed my mind," he says, noncommittally.

"What was the original plan?" She punctuates her question softly, because he's closer to her than before - before the kiss, before the aftermath, before everything they've done to reach this point. They're not saying anything, but somehow all the information is still being communicated between them. This - whatever this is, they've crossed a line that's quickly disappearing, and no matter how hard they try, they'll never be able to reverse direction.

She has the brief thought that maybe it's better, easier, if they leave it where it ended. But in all the years she's known him, she's discovered that nothing with him is ever easy. She's learned not to expect it - this isn't going to be different than any of the others.

She's never taken the easy route. She's not going to start now.

It's impossible to tell who moves forward first, but when they do, their mouths clash in a heated exchange, noses colliding awkwardly. He plays with her lower lip, nibbling slightly. She draws in a shaky breath, parting her lips for his tongue. The files somehow slip from her hands, scattering to the floor, paper floating across carpet and underneath chairs. It gives her the opportunity to place a hand on his shoulder, fingertips extending to skim against the stubble on his cheek.

They pull back slowly, almost reluctantly. His eyes are still guarded, but she thinks she can see the beginnings of clarity within them.

She sucks her lip into her mouth, tasting a sharp sweetness that she's become even more familiar with in such a short while. It's then she realizes both his hands are on her waist. He's left his cane leaning against her desk, and when she fixes her attention on it, he grabs it with a surprising haste, fingers curling around the handle. She sees the remnant of something on his hand - a cut, a bite - but he clears his throat as he shifts past her, already in pursuit of the doorknob.

"You should've knocked," she whispers. That stops him - only for a moment, and his shoulders tense visibly. He's silent, goes for the door, and she drops to her knees to pick up the papers.

She's predicting the inevitable, waiting for the sound of the door clicking shut, and when she doesn't hear it, she looks up. He's watching her, and as she waits, his smirk reappears.

"That potted plant next to your front door is fake," he declares knowingly, as if he's revealed top-secret information.

"At least I won't have to make you a key," she says.

The sound of her laugh follows him out into the clinic.


End file.
